Im a normal kind of guy.
I was born in a normal house,
In a normal street,
In a normal town,
In a normal country,
to normal parents.
My normal parents paid their taxes.
My normal parents supported whatever War was happening.
My normal parents supported whatever monarch was in power.
My normal parents voted for normal political parties.
My parents were normally patriotic.
They led normal lives.
I grew up to be normal.
I went to a normal public/private school.
I had a normal ****** relationship with another boy at school.
I gained a normal education.
I chased girls and some boys as any normal boy would.
I enjoyed normal *** with girls and some boys.
I fell in love with Jazz/Folk/Blues as any normal boy does.
I fell in love with writing and reading aloud "poetry" as any normal boy does.
I fell in love with reading novels and sociology and comparative religion as any normal boy does.
I rode motorcycles as any normal boy does.
I went camping and fishing and rambling in the fields and forests
as any normal boy does.
So my teenage years passed--halcyon days--and nights,
leaving the body behind regularly.
Until I stole my first Alto Saxophone.
Was that normal?.
It certainly was compulsive.
And no shame or guilt either.
I tried,in vain to play like  Charles Parker--
and failed miserably as did everyone else.
I wandered through Europe and the Near East,
and the Middle East and South East Asia--dressed in yellow.
Cooking Rice Dal Sabji Roti-everywhere I went-.
over twigs and sweet smelling cow ****.
My latest horn with "the Pres"engraved on the bell.
Played My Funny Valentine  sideways and upside down.
Plastic Reeds--oh--Plastic Reeds.
And pure Crystal Mouthpieces.
I sat under Gotamas tree and NOTHING happened.
Ah sweet nothing.
I was VOID of all.
Just an empty headed wanderer.




More to come

What’s the connection?—
        a secret kept best between plug and socket.
               Prophet man gone the old electric way,
[and durn’ an election year, no less]. Epigrammatic burps, and
  occasional flatulence, of intellection,      
I can’t help
        but admire my own kindofbouquet, it ain’t easy—
                 when Christ was crucified like gas…

…There’s a million and more clichés I could toss around as mud and dirt;
       Alas!,
                         I’d rather speak in terms of glass, [plateglass, stainedglass etc.,
               germs and love, and guns and lovely lovely ca-sh,

today’s math; burnt and sad, self—Walking [my] small town streets, sure to stray faraway of dense windows,
        and passerby's in ugly masks, with karaoke mouthpieces,
                       Ballads of boredom on precipitate tongues, Shoo!—away
and blow apart minstrel clouds.

        No taxis, [ever]
        just men and women in ordinary cars, pedestrians,
                   in obvious shoes,sporting unconscious denim,northeastern scowls
—fashionable scowls,
         nuanced grays that distract from the spots of ill sun [hostage winter sun;]
                 scowls like Northeastern sky herself.

“I’ve surely lost my perspective”
                 [An empty phrase, really. A neat vaguery, I submit.]
        I had a perspective, I still got it;
        Though not much use it does me being how singular it is,
                                       Optics and all, no shades of reflection,
Dense windows of thought, so dense,
       —it’s now a microscope! Hell, all i can make out is a loose collection of colors,

A broken box of loose wires
          and some kinda bang-up dodgy liberty, those frayed connections, too.
                Nothing as tidy as plug and socket,
        however,enough
                to keep the lights on.

We preach it.
We teach it.
But doesn't reach out to help.

So much homelessness.
Do we try to assist them?
Find a home for them.

Or like many talks about them.

We see it.
We cry out.
But hadn't tried to reach out.

Like many, we stay quiet and complain.

Elected official use it to their benefit.
And the one elected forget about them needing help.
We see them in the mayor and the council that preaches affordable housing.

We just a world of mouthpieces.

I think they blow demon's breath
To knock the weak to the ground
Some of them don't even realize
How they're being used
Willing, ignorant mouthpieces
Gleefully spitting the Name of the enemy
Gracefully twisting the Word despised
Into something unrecognizable

Writing is all I do.
It is who I am, the dialogue
Spinning through my mind
Every moment of every day.
It is all I see.
My life in words.
But I have to write about things.
Stories, always stories.
That’s what you’re supposed to write
That’s what people read.
But why?
So much noise in a story.
The colors and the worlds
And the loud, loud people
That aren’t people, they’re just a waste
Of ink and paper and hope and love
And the stupid, stupid readers fall for it
And believe it’s somehow true
And it’s just so much noise.
My poems are my soul
What I really think
Said plainly,
No mouthpieces
No wasted love on those stupid things
The imposter people.
This is me.
Black and white.
Insecure.
Unsure and imperfect
But honest, always true.
Look.
Read.
Know, this is what I do, what I am
Born to write
And do it badly
Knowing no one cares.

clear light skin
dark hair with big curls
he resembled a kid we used to babysit
slight in stature
humble in posture
a look of shock and disbelief
deep seated in his baby face
and bubble eyes
his demeanor saying
“I don’t belong here”
a soft peach colored long sleeved shirt
clean, pressed and tucked in
with pants pulled up
no gangbangers’ stereotype
a picture of innocence
clearly a child
being tried as an adult

I kept close watch
during jury’s selection
with the miracle of real-time captioning
listening with my eyes
darting from screen
to arena’s drama
back to screen
observing potential jurors’ interaction with
defending and prosecuting mouthpieces
body language says so much
trumpeting the seriousness

with capital punishment looming
jurors absorbed spiels
the presumption of innocence
the credibility of evidence
the ability to objectively choose death

I would tell myself
the defendant didn’t just do this
to the decedent
I would tell myself
the defendant did this to himself
I would tell myself
it’s not my job to decide
if he lives or dies
I would tell myself
only to decide
if the crime defines death’s statute
all personal feelings aside
but I’d also tell myself
this is just a kid

thank God
I wasn’t selected

I met a man so gifted
Meek in his loving ways

He'll capture your heart
And he'll teach you God's ways

He's funny and slick
He lives by God's ways

He's an emotional creature
That hates hurting ways

His name is P. C.
And I love him so

He's one of God's mouthpieces
And he preaches LOVE

God be with you
Live by his ways

God is his daddy
And he loves his ways

Do we feel it when it all falls unconscious
What if all the mothers on the planet
Were ensconced into their hearts simultaneously
And if for a single moment
There was freedom from the tyranny
Of endless duties and responsibilities
Would it all fall apart at once

I beg your pardon
But tonight's sunset was one of the Sun's most fertile deposits
So what if we were to shun the day
And instead make love to the darkness of the desert
For the pheasant is my ancestral totem
And it is obvious in the moonlight
That you motion to me like a novice
For after you and I are seduced by the harvest
We can choose first among the stardust
Its true that all this was once our own garden
From a time when we first learned to become human
Until we eventually return to the understory
Of our aboriginal commonality

We are still happening
We are learning to shun acceptance
And make due with unexpected lessons
We are undifferentiated fantasy
In lands of cholera and chronic romances
We are far from perfect
But we still always try to do our best
And i don't expect you to protest anything

And if we dance for days against the apathy we make
And spray gradients of sound from our awakening
Into the pleroma’s defiance
We can try out our mouthpieces
And seek fingers of lightning
At a height quite defiant
Whenever we get uptight like a runway
Sundays are always smiling
And whenever we make love
We break records with our bodies
Against the conundrums
Of being polished too roughly
We funnel living diamonds
Into pipelines of supply and demand
Like cats and mice we chase trends around bends
Of commerce and economic insurgency

i'm in a bad way, in a really bad way -
i'm sleeping less, i'm eating less,
i'm not thinking about anything but her -
what she's feeling...
i already figured out something:
she's looking for an "engineer" of sorts,
her father was a ca-car mechanic...
my tongue is wondering into blah blah
my blood pressure is shooting
through the roof, i'm getting cramps
in my stomach: butterflies my ***...
well i wish it was a gentle ferris wheel
down there in my guts...
but it's more like a ******* zero gravity
ride... that mad one where if you had
big chunks of cheek on you they'd be
flapping like a bulldog's!
nervous, twitchy, i still have to complete
my qualifications for this job
but... no... oh come on... get out of my head!
i haven't felt this authentically sick
in a long time... i'm rattled... i'm a teenager
again... giddy loved-up fool! fool!
- and that's what i'm saying... i've just done
a Harry Windsor...
                                  what an irony: well no,
there's no ****** irony in any of this!
at 35 you'd think i'd be more sensible,
that i'd listen to advice...
                          but it's not like i was on
the dating market, that i ever dated...
we're just working together... but already
we've been on our first coffee "date"...
and yeah, i paid for it...
                            the kid will most certainly
hate me, parents are leaving
for Jamaica in a week for two weeks...
if she wants to be taken out i'd say:
want to come over? what would you like
to eat? gnocchi, some other pasta?
a steak... you like a curry? oh, you're into Chinese?
you want chairman Mao's red braised pork
belly? i can make that...
what movie you want to watch?
i have hundreds on DVD... what wine would
you like? you'd rather sip some wine
while i put on a vinyl... i have plenty of jazz vinyls...
you're not into jazz... i have some other crap...
scented candles? something stronger
than wine? absinthe, whiskey, cognac?
you want to bring a swimsuit so we can
jump into the jacuzzi.... yeah... it's in the garden...
in a "shed"...
              if i don't get slightly tipsy in the next
hour or so i'm going to be a right ol' wrecking ball...
better: i'll be a nervous wreck...
but at least that's the next few poems taken
care off... because i don't think i'll be writing anything
else about anything else...
oh for ****'s sake... i'm back to listening to some
Roxette and Bon Jovi... what's next?!
you give love a bad name, bad medicine,
watercolours in the rain... fading like a flower
(do you get) exited?
why did i ask for her number? oh, right, i wanted
clarification about how we were coming back
from Oxford and Dan's people-carrier
broke down by Potter's Bar - the clutch gave in,
he was unable to change gears and
the revs were spinning into the region of 4
while going at 20mph...
so she paid for the Uber... went down the most
picturesque windy avenues of the Essex
countryside, via Loughton - places i know from
having cycled down them...
god... i'd love to take her cycling in the summer...
if she would be up to it... have a picnic
in a field... **** in the shade of an oak...
oh: hello La La Land... if i was diagnosed
as a schizoid once before: now diagnose me...
loved up idiot... and it's not like she's some
stunning 20 year old and i'm gagging
to pass on my genes... like i already said...
pass my genes?
oh sure... that ends up well...
by the time i might have a child...
that's 1/2 of me... by the time there are grandchildren
there's only a 1/4 of me left... 1/8, 1/16, 1/32 etc.
as much as i am "love" with her...
infatuated? crazed? i'm also thinking about
the inverse ratios... a potential little Frankenstein
monster... my thinking could be passed
on... not the entire, whole narrative...
bits and scraps... well... that implies
a sort of cognitive cloning... there might be a 2/1
of me by the end of it...... then 4/1, 8/1, 16/1 of me...
i guess that's why i started writing...
- and i am so completely terrified imagining that
people might suss me out, figure out that
i have a crush... how much of theoretical
poker do i have to play to supress outright showcasing
my feelings while at the same time continually
making incursions on the charm-front?
- Matt! get your **** together, why are you
perched on the windowsill with your hand
over your mouth!
- conscience? ego? who are you, why such a silly
question?!
so i figured she has an archetypical figure in mind,
like her father, a car mechanic...
oh, sure, sure, i can add some spare parts
to a DIY problem... but i'm primarily a wordsmith...
most Slavs are...
i've already texted her some music recommendations,
"meditation" music... i'm already talking
to her about her son's name, the etymology
of Fredrick... very Germanic, like my second
name, Conrad... blah blah... no... of course
i wouldn't call him merely Fred... lazy-*** English
way of shortening names...
i woke up today and had a thought...
sky... tree... oak... red... sun...
those are absolute nouns...
everything that composes the natural world is
an absolute noun...
since it has no origin from man's creativity...
therefore? i cannot generalise an absolute
noun under the guise of: nothing...
something, anything, everything, or merely: thing...
the sun is not a "thing": it's the sun...
a tree is not a "thing": it's a tree...
the sea is not a "thing": it's the sea...
mountain, goat, dog, cat... rat...
   but... a bed is not an absolute noun...
a chair is not an absolute noun... hell... let's change
that... these are unconditional nouns...
everything born of man is a conditional noun...
why? look at the simple example
of a car mechanic asking an aid for specific tool...
most of the time he asks for the right tool...
but sometimes he's so involved by his work
that his verbal communication is misplaced
by what the eyes see... he might ask for
a thingymajig... he'll use a misnomer supplied
with the comforting words: you get the picture...
yeah... that THING...
socks are things... but dogs are dogs...
the latter are conditional nouns...
since they are not necessarily minded since
they are used... equipped...
i can't be equipped with a tree... or the sea
or the sky...
so she's looking for someone like her father...
well i know how language works...
i already introduced her to the idea of a prefix
and the suffix: omitting the R i asked:
you son's name is merely Fred? not Fredrick?
is it because of the suffix -****?
no, wait... that's actually an affix -ick (come to think
of it)...
so apart from me spamming her with
a playlist... we moved onto favourite people
in history... it was a challenge... Philip II Augustus...
of the Capetian dynasty...
Frederick II Hohenstaufen...
   that experiment he did with the nuns and
what would later become feral mute children...
because he wanted to find out what language
arrived on earth first... the croaking of the crow?
the growl of the tiger?
the snorting trumpet of the elephant?
i'm here... no... i don't recall how we arrived
of ever being reported...
perhaps that's how we keep going...
by a collective amnesia... we have to forget certain
things in order to pursue life per se,
well... at least writing this little "philosophical"
pieces has allowed me to return to some
balance... being loved up is not good to you:
it uses you up... and there are high chances of
being disillusioned... best prepare for the disillusionment...
- i have to calm down and think
about the world, or at least parts of it...
take for example the transgender phenomenon:
so there has been a backlog in metaphysical inquiry..
well, no surprises, the English speaking world
was always oh so, practical, ergonomic...
it's not like the Russian speaking world still
entombed in a Titanic battle with their prescribed
Greek orthodoxy... lunatics galore...
even this whole grammatical game that's currently
being played... sure... i'm game:
my preferred pronouns are... ONE / WE...
that's the royal approach...
as one might add: we greatly disapprove...
the end...
                   since with one, one presupposes
a potential entourage of we...
we implies a magnetism toward a shared
opinion - a quasi-self... while the plurality of a THEY
implies... oh... THOSE basket cases other "there"
in the corner... oddly enough: nothing,
yes... NOTHING is categorised as a pronoun...
since? well... how can it be anything except a noun?
it's not an adjective / quality... you can call something
attributing nothingness: but there are no attributes
of nothingness, thereby you can't treat
nothing as a noun... since... there's NO, THING,
to be allocated a noun-status...
weird... no? that nothing is a pronoun...
so is everything... anything, something, itself...
oh... but the game has already started...
there are so many audacious mouthpieces out there
doing the knitty-and-the-gritty work
with their hormone blockers that...
my two-cents are hardly important...
i guess i just came late to the party...
cool... now that i've ingested enough alcohol to
appear calm, i can go about my business...
now that i stopped feeling all loved up
i can find a chance to refocus my attention
on immediate concerns...
all the better... it's enough for one hurt creature to love
another hurt creature... it's another
to navigate this world...
the world i arrived at... given the current climate...
needs something equivalent to a magic compass...
i don't have that...
i'll scar myself less by not investing any
genes in the pool...
i don't appreciate family politics...
that cut-throat archetypical brother against brother...
no, thank you... these words ought
to be enough... and if they're not:
so be it...

from the mouth of giuseppe belli:
lei se tienghi li gatti a ccasa sua
(missus, keep your sodding cats inside)

Weariness
Has tempered me
But no mouthpieces
Censor me
Indenture me to servitude
Is only of my swinging
Mood
Exude I love you
Tacitly
And shatter hearts
As passively
Aggressive lets
Me fester in
My own regrets
Oblivion begets distress
My rest in peace
Of mindful quest
Should I arrive
Before contrived
Conveys finality
Described

Be not upset.
Or forget Tom Brokaw been a robot for years.
Remember reporters aka mouthpieces sign rights away to offer an opinion.

Contractual obligated to stay quiet.

It's the age trap that got Broky caught.
Like, many older whites that grew up in a segregated climate.
He stuck to limited knowledge he know about America.

Many Latin heritage speak dual languages.
It's the American born falling behind a changing society.
To prove my point just look at the clown in the White House.

So he under attack.
Well, his mouth of stupidity asked for that.
Tom Brokaw got the blues.

**** even his weak apology is getting bad reviews.

We hear the message from the mouthpieces, the community leaders and others.
The system is failing the black youth.
Really?
What about the parents?
What about black churches?

We blame the schools?
We blame the government.
But not those within the communities bringing it down.

We know the phrase "a mind is a terrible thing to waste".

But if the black youth trade is to steal, rob and sell drugs.
Then that youth is failing themselves.

If getting pregnant without concentrating on your future and goals.
Then that youth is failing themselves.
Really, we can't continue to blame anyone else.

Notice, those black youth that stayed focus and succeeds.
They knew what they wanted in life?
They made their dreams come true.

If the parents are the drug supplier to the community?
And let's not avoid this topic?
Cause many black youth parents are dealers in the trade.
They hurting society and the community and put them at risk.

If mom still thinking she the friend instead of the parent?
Then restrictions of guidance are limited.
She yet to comprehend the role of a parent.

The government, can't be blamed completely.
If Johny can't read?
Then he alerts anyone.

And if the parent can't read?
Then failure occurred because the parent didn't want better.

Then there is the church?
Unlike the days of the fifties and sixties and early on.
The mission seems to be growth and ownership of land.
Instead being that lighthouse of hope to assist those needing it.